


Dance with Me

by orphan_account



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Hyur Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Slow Burn, it may get explicit later but we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25946377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Indebted to an Ascian is a position no one wishes to be in, especially not a Warrior of Light.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	1. Standard step: begin dancing.

**Author's Note:**

> I drew something and then it didn't satisfy my Desire, so I wrote something. This will (hopefully) continue. If you like this please leave a comment or a kudos! Thanks!
> 
> join the bookclub :) https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic

She wasn't surprised when he approached her, she had felt eyes on her from the last battle. Two golden eyes from the shadows observing her every move, watching the chakrams fly through the air, moved to the round of a nonexistent drum. His curiosity was stated, most likely, by countless texts he could find or were given to him. But this, this was her special thing. A memoir from her homeland that she kept near and dear to her heart.

And Emet-Selch wanted it.

She didn't realize it, not until the third battle (and Urianger briefly warning her).

He was observing her the same way Cid would watch his mechanisms - with a calculating eye, dissecting each part of it. It was unnerving, to say the least. But everything about an Ascian following you around Rak'Tika in the shadows is unnerving. Parizad did her best to ignore the man, mainly because his presence filled her with rage, but because she wasn't sure how to answer if he wished to know.

The dance was special to her, it was from her homeland. The place that was destroyed by the Garleans. Although she did not get the opportunity to learn from her family, Nashmeira took her under her wing. She wanted the dance to live on, but not through Emet-Selch. 

Anyone but him. 

But she was in his debt after he had helped Y' shtola. 

Thancred pulled her to the side immediately afterward to warn Pari to settle her debt with the Ascian. "He'll make sure to cash it in at the most inopportune moment. Make sure to even the odds, and quickly."

Parizad felt nauseous at the idea of owing Emet-Selch a favor. He demanded it was a gesture of kindness to prove that he was an ally to them. She believed it at first, perhaps the Ascian wasn't as tempered as she found. Thancred was the ice water that woke her up to reality. 

When she sees Emet standing by the field where Y' shtola was saved, Parizad takes a long breath before advancing. Everyone had departed from the area, rushing to the infirmary: everyone but Emet-Selch. 

He must have known she was approaching since he turns his head to peer over his shoulder.

"Am I that easy to detect?"

She stops, about a meter away from where he stands, his back to her. 

"Oh, yes. Anything that can sense aether knows you are approaching from a mile away," Emet finally turns, facing her. "You're a walking insult to all, Ascians."

"Ah, something I've always aspired to be," she does not advance further, sensing this, Emet approaches. Instinctively, she takes an added step back.

_ Settle your debt, Parizad. _

She breathes deeply, calming the erratic nerves that buzz through her veins. Extending a hand out to Emet, magic from her internal song begins to dance around her fingers in little red lights. 

"Would you dance with me?"

His eyes shifted glimpses between her hand and her face, searching her affect for any sign of foul play. He would find none, but his curiosity kept him from nearing. She could see the gears in his mind working away, venturing to dissect the offer. 

"Warming up to me now, are you?" He takes her hand, and Parizad lets out a startled yelp as he yanks her forth with unusual strength. 

Her face hits the soft fabric of his chest, and before she can take a step back, she senses him pull her close once more. She can feel his gloved hand on the small of her waist, and other wandering down her side, resting on her hip. The winking crimson light from her magic now surrounding them did not help the growing tension in the air. Parizad kept her head down, hiding the burning passion that was proliferating her cheeks.

This was not her first intimate encounter; the hero was, to say, well versed in such areas. There had been a time where it was the only way she could afford to live. Yet somehow, Emet-Selch had managed to reduce her to a blushing virgin. 

Despite this not beginning as a competition, she refused to let him win at whatever game he was playing. 

She jostles him back with a bit of magic, the red glow still shimmering amid them. He could most likely overhear the cadence of her heart, as she could hear his. The bells on her ankles and wrist sing a tune as she begins to strut a circle around him, inciting the sparkling lights to burn brighter. 

"I know you have been watching me dance." He does not follow her steps as she walks and taunts him. "So I've decided to take pity and teach you. You're welcome." 

His silence brings a smile to her face as she completes her taunting circle. She had won this stupid game.

"I was not observing  _ your _ dancing, hero," her face drops, but the ruby lights continue to whirl around them. "I was observing  _ you. _ " 

Jarred by his words, he seizes the lead once more. Their faces are illuminated by the glowing scarlet lights, as Parizad is once more pulled into his arms. 

He turns elegantly, his body in harmony with the rhythm of their combined aether. Their movements together brightened the song between them - a tune that only they could hear. His steps were swift and confident; Parizad found herself dancing along, still attempting to digest the implication behind his words. 

Her inquiries lost their fervor with each step they took together, their song drowning out any sensible thoughts. She couldn't find the strength to care about sensibilities. 

The warmth between them grew more powerful by the second. Their dance was perfect: each step fell precisely on time with one another, and even as the music sped up between them, they had managed to keep up with ease. Everything from their breathing to their movements stayed in perfect sync. Parizad found her heart aching, knowing the next step would be the finish, completing their song.

On cue, Emet spun her once and dipped her. Parizad hooked her outer leg on his hips, her arm holding her close to him by his shoulder. Her chest rose and fell, her mind noiselessly swirling with ecstasy. 

"We make beautiful music together, don't we hero?" 

His words should have snapped her back to reality, but all it did was fan the flames in her chest. Emet knowing precisely what was brewing behind her mismatched eyes, drew her close to him, breaking all separation between the two. He held tightly onto her, the passion from their dance pouring into their kiss. 

Gently, he placed her onto the bed of wildflowers, the crimson light from her magic dull and barely lighting the field around them. She pulled him closer by the collar of his shirt, refusing to let go - not even for a breath of air. Her fingers began to work away at the buttons of his jacket, mind buzzing with desire.

Velvet gloves buried beneath the fabric of her shirt, pulling it aside. His lips gently brushed the skin between her breasts, curious hands exploring what eyes could not see. Lost in the fervency, her hands began to work their way down his chest, fingers hooking onto his leather belt. Emet pulls himself from her, forcing her to release her grip on him. He trails kisses down her exposed, burning, stomach, fingers dragging and gripping the fullest part of her hips. She could still feel the rhythm of the song in her chest, beating to the nonexistent tempo. His hands had nearly reached her desired destination until an unexpected sound rang out from beyond the field of wildflowers.

The abrupt rumble dragged Parizad out of the depths of her own lust, pulling her precipitously back to reality. Her head hurt from the sudden change of pace, the sound of footsteps filling the otherwise silent night air.

"Pari! Parizad!"

She took a sharp breath of air, her mouth opening to yell back. Her voice was caught in her throat, mouth muffled by sudden white velvet against her lips. Emet was looking to where the sound was, peering through the darkness to determine who was interrupting his  _ private _ dance. 

"Ifritah! Where are you?!"

The voice was terrifyingly familiar, her heart dropped into her stomach, her eyes widening with horror. Thancred was about to walk in on her while she was in a precarious position with their sworn enemy. Who had one hand on her mouth and the other in her pants. 

_ Fuck!  _ Her hands shot up to push Emet off her, but he was - per usual - one step ahead of her. The moment she laid her hands on him, he took his  _ typical _ exit strategy, leaving her behind, laying on the grass disheveled.

Her head shot up from the long grass, hands readjusting her top. Pieces of flowers were stuck in her hair, and her expression was crazed.

"Ifritah, what the hell-?" Thancred's eyes narrowed on her as he approached. Parizad frantically attempted to straighten herself back to her formal, composed self. He stopped just short of a few steps from where she was sitting, a hand dropping to cover his eyes as he shook his head disapprovingly.

"I don't wish to know what you were doing out here, Pari," his hand slides down his face, presenting to her his displeased expression. "But from the look of you, I know you were doing something you  _ weren't  _ supposed to be doing."

Her mind scrambled for excuses, for  _ anything _ to cover up the fact there was an Ascian in her pants just a few seconds ago. What could she even  _ say _ to him that would not be incriminating? She was sure Thancred was knowledgable in the appearance of women in the midst of  _ compromising activities. _ Moreover, Thancred  _ also _ knew of her past with such things. What could she even say?!

"I was masturbating!" 

Her hand shot to her mouth, petrified with what she just divulged to him. It wasn't a  _ complete _ lie; besides, her performance only peaked as her cheeks burn as bright as burning coals. 

Thancred's hand smacked against his forehead, partially masking his eyes. Red blooms on his cheeks, stained by the hero's so-called confession. 

"I said I didn't want to know…" He breathes out a sob, and Pari's face contorts with smiling embarrassment. "I- no. No, we are not going to extend this conversation. It never happened."

The silence was dense enough to slice a dagger through it, and neither of them were brave enough to speak or look away first. They gawked at one another, waiting for someone, for  _ something _ to come and preserve them from each other. 

Parizad, ever the intrepid hero, swallowed the fear in her throat to speak first, "I will return to camp in a moment… You should go back to tell them where I am -" Her hands shot up at a sudden, horrifying thought. "But not what I'm doing! Or was doing! Leave that out!"

Thancred's expression did not relax, his grimace pulling further on his face. He did not give her a reply, merely nodded, and turned to walk back to the camp. 

Once he was out of earshot, Parizad unceremoniously let herself drop back onto the ground. A sigh of relief parts from her. Her face is still warm to the touch as she pushes her hair back, trying to think of how she will attempt to salvage whatever respect for her Thancred had.

* * *

He unceremoniously fell into the plush seat, a hand resting on his chin as his mind dipped into swirling thoughts. He didn't know  _ whose _ room this was, and frankly, he did not care. Emet-Selch was too preoccupied with reliving and dissecting the events that had happened just seconds ago. 

_ So close _ , he was  _ so close _ that time. He can still taste the salty sweaty of her on his lips, a lingering taste of lust and desire. The dance had pulled the memories of eons ago to the forefront of his mind; the unity and  _ passion _ . It had once been there, cherished by  ** both ** of them. Not just one. It was a delicious, forbidden taste of the past that he only desired more and more as time went on. He closes his eyes, attempting to secure these memories into somewhere safe within his mind - and, to be brass, for later usage. 

Moments pass before he opens his eyes once more, and it is only due to the sound of footsteps approaching. Where was he again? Oh right, a stranger's home, decorated with luxurious furniture. Most likely a resident of Eulmore. Before the door unlocks, Emet snaps his fingers and retreats to the darkness from where he came.

In a second, he's back in the Rak'Tika Greatwood, the infirmary manifesting in his vision as he steps out of the black void. His appearance brings about scowls and glares, but he couldn't care less. Why worry over the opinion of sheep, of  _ cattle _ , when you are the butcher? 

Plus, he should be the one glaring at Thancred.

Yet ever diplomatic, he allows no emotion to seep through his nonchalant expression. Golden eyes scan the room, the room that stares back at him as if he were an untamed beast ready to snap his jaws against their necks and end their miserable lives. He would be doing them a favor, really, all this work for nothing. It  ** was ** amusing watching them scramble and struggle with so-called "complex" puzzles. If  _ anything _ , Emet-Selch  ** loved ** free entertainment.

"Your hero retired early tonight?"

The scions stay silent, and he can't help but smile at their attempt to be protective. He  _ could _ just summon himself to her, but he enjoyed playing these mortal games.

"Is this how you treat  _ all _ your allies when they rescue one of your own? Or shall I send your friend back to the stream, summon her again, to jog your memory of what I did?" He smooths out his clothes, his threat casually given, despite the venom that dripped from the words. 

_ That _ managed to get their attention, and Thancred was the first to perk up, eyes flaring with a fire. He looked like a small dog, really. A displeased puppy.  **_ Cute _ ** .

"She is with Urianger and Minfilia, discussing our next steps," his tone is sharp, intended to kill - or in Emet's case, shoo him away. "I suggest you return to the darkness from where you came, Ascian. You are not welcome during such talks."

"Afraid I'll foil your perfectly laid plans?" He takes a step forward, because why not? Thancred's anger was amusing to him. Like a child stomping his feet as he throws a temper tantrum. "If I wanted to, I would have. Numerous times, in fact, several occasions, I could have easily killed you all."

Thancred takes a cautious step back, eyes set on Emet-Selch, waiting for his jaws to snap shut on his neck. "And yet, you are all still here and well. So I  _ beg _ of you to reconsider your hatred for me, and put your  _ passion _ in other aspects of your life."

Emet-Selch's words butchered the conversation, slit its throat, and hung it by its feet to bleed out. Thancred was done with him, turning back to stand by Y' shtola's bedside. Emet smiled behind his back, it was always fun to play games with them. 

But there  _ was _ a game that was left unfinished, rudely interrupted by the man-child named Thancred. He would wait, then, until the others were gone to finish his and Parizad's  _ game.  _ It would be rude to leave it unfinished.


	2. Emet-Selch's Concerto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet cannot conceptualize that he cannot receive what he desires. So he does what he is best at; he schemes. CW for violence, depression, dissociation and suicidal thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was suppose to be a cute lil dancing fic but then it got DEPRESSING and DARK really fast... anyways I hope to salvage this ship and if I cannot.. it is what it is.

_This chapter contains imagery and discussion of **violence** , **depression** , **dissociation** and **suicidal thoughts**. _

He hates not getting what he desires.

Throughout his life as _Solus_ , whatever his eyes rested upon for longer than a minute, he would receive it. Either through blood and suffering, or hard work and persuasion. There was not a single thing in this fleeting world that he could not get his hands on. Centuries past and no one dares challenge this fact – no, this _law_ – that whatever Emet-Selch wanted, he would receive it.

It only added to the warrior of light's infuriating nature that he could not have her.

He almost had her, that night in the meadow. Fortune, however, was not in his favor, their dance coming to a premature end. He would not deny that, for several nights after, he had relived those memories of her dancing, body flush against his. The taste of her nearly sent him to take himself in hand to experience the passion truly. But no, he denied himself such _measly_ replacements because he knew he could obtain the real thing. No Emperor would accept a _fake_ when the real one is within reach.

She had been avoiding him as much as she could since that night, and when cornered in a room with others, she would watch him with curious eyes, brows, and lips set in a frown. He knew that expression- it was one of calculation, of strategizing and intense thought. She formulated a goal, this much he could tell, but now she was concocting how she would proceed with it. Frankly, he _too_ was interested in what sort of scheme the warrior of light – infamous for the plan of "kill and go" – would come up with.

If he had the patience he usually did, he would have allowed it to play out. Why interrupt the play when the actors know their roles so well? When it was time to strike the set, then it would be the moment of opportunity; to take the upper hand in the situation. Show the actors _who_ they are performing for. Alas, his patience was wearing thin by every passing day. The memory of her taunts him, yet fades as well. The rush to the finish is there, the last scene of the play so close yet so far, and he no longer had the time to sit and wait. It was time to end this unnecessary intermission and tell the orchestrate to quicken the pace to make way for the grand finale to begin.

No longer in the Rak'tika Greatwood, the opportunity bloomed like a rose on the first day of spring, after a long, harsh winter.

"I wish to get supplies before I retire to my room," the scions share a look of concern at Parizad's request. She had nearly succumbed to the light within Qitana Ravel, and her body was holding together at the seams, ready to snap at any given moment.

Y'shtola was the first to object to Pari's request.

"It would be best if you went to your room to rest. I am sure we can find others to fetch your supplies for you," Y'shtola looks to the others in the group, and they all nod.

"Urianger and I can go and fetch your things for you. You merely need to write a list."

As they chatted, Parizad wrote a list for them. The group split into their respective duties. From the shadows, he watches her wander off towards the Pendants. Any fool would have accepted that she would retire to her rooms, get the rest that her friends demanded she needed. But he knew this type _very well_. The hero of the story, the charismatic leader who never yields, not even when death is dragging her to hell's depths. He was not shocked to see her take a turn as she approached the Pendants, taking the unbeaten path behind the inn.

It was not out of his desire to see his plans come to fruition that he followed her, but mere curiosity. Hero types were all the same, cookie-cut images of one another. They pray and fight in hopes of a _better_ world. They were achieving peace and balance, or whatever _other_ garbage that was shoved into their brains by their companions. But there was something about _her_ , her behavior, how she spoke, the things she had done and seen. It was not all a strive for world peace. And if it was not for peace, then what was it for?

Could she then, even be called a hero?

She stops several steps from the mouth of the path where Emet stood. She _must_ have noticed him following her; he makes no effort to hide.

"If you wish to speak, then let us speak in private," she continues down the path. Emet hesitates to follow, unsure what to make of the offer. _What was she planning?_ It was tough to pick her brain, he will admit that much.

Nonetheless, he follows. He knew that it would be either a confrontation or a continuation of the events that transpired in Rak'tika; he was showing favoritism towards the latter possibility.

The scenery is captivating, an overgrown garden that provides shade from the unrelenting sun. Every inch of the Crystarium was perfect and polished; even the abandoned routes were beautiful enough to paint. He was familiar with these flowers; he was familiar with most things, after all. Though these were _uniquely familiar_ , a memory from his mortal existence as Solus. He could smell a faint scent of frankincense from memory. He closes his eyes, focusing on the smell, and a blurred image of a garden that was practically a mirror image of the one he was strolling through.

_About his age at the prime of his years, an older woman was leading him through the well-kept path of their garden. At her side, holding her hand is a young woman, as old as Varis, from what he can tell. She hides behind her mother's dress every time they exchange glances, and he can't help but smile._

_"We are in mourning, Solus, and I am afraid that we must postpone any deals until further notice," the woman, he recalls, is Empress Golbahar. He had come to this meeting to discuss trade-in regard to the abundance of ceruleum in their kingdom._

_"I am sorry for your loss. I can sympathize with the pain of outliving your kin," a little too familiar, he wanted to say._

_The Empress nods, her eyes distant. The child seems disconnected, her face stiff and unreadable. He couldn't blame her; she had just lost her mother._

_"Parizad will be assuming her position once she is of age, but for now, we mourn the loss of Anahita."_

_His fingers brush one of the roses' petals, and he smiled at the young lady whose mind was far, far away._

_"She will make a fine Empress one day."_

She did make a fine Empress, cunning and charismatic. It was a shame she did not manage to charm her way past her people's massacre by the Garleans. Everything that little girl created was destroyed, lost to the lifestream. Much like her own mother. Except for one _person_ , one woman who keeps the memory of her extinct people alive.

"Ifritah."

"You do not have permission to be calling me that name, Emet-Selch," her words are sharp, ready to cut flesh. "To _you_ , I am Parizad."

"I would rather not use the name of your mother for _you_. You have such a lovely name, _Ifritah_. Based on the primal, I assume?"

"Why do you not use Parizad? Because you were the one who ordered her execution and the destruction of her – _my_ \- people?"

"That, my dear, was not my doing. It was Varis'. Also, you completely ignored my previous query."

"Screw your queries! You had a part in it! You stood by idly and did nothing while your grandson killed _my_ mother and destroyed everything she worked for!"

"I do not take responsibility for the actions Varis takes, Ifritah. Though, I am impressed by how he managed to wipe your kind clean off the map in a single campaign – _very_ impressive."

She lunges forward, ready to throttle the Ascian for such venomous words. Her abrupt coughing fit stops her, her hand grabbing onto her chest as she struggles for air between each cough. Emet merely stands and watches; she had done this in Qitana Ravel, she would surely recover. Plus, why should he feel guilty over the warrior of light suffering?

But it was not the warrior of light who was suffering.

It was _her_.

And it took every inch of self-restraint for him to hold himself back before lunging to help her- to save her.

Porcelain blood drips down her mouth as she loses strength in her legs, forcing her to fall to the ground onto her knees. Yet, between her wheezes for air and the bloodstains on her hands and feet, she still speaks.

"Do not…. Speak my family's name…" She takes a deep breath, and when she looks up to face him, he watches her mismatched eyes turn **black**.

_Fascinating_.

An idea surfaces the ocean of thoughts... _a plan, a **scheme**_. A way to get what he wants so desperately while also fulfilling a duty he cannot neglect. Her anger is dark, bloodthirsty – it consumes her when left under check, there was a darkness there that kept her alive. It was the darkness he felt: the loss of his people – _of everything he knew_.

She knows what it feels like to carry corpses on her back, bringing them with her wherever she wandered. To count their bodies before she slept, to memorize their faces in fear that she would no longer remember them one day. Then they would indeed be lost to oblivion as if they never existed in the first place.

Her suffering is a song he knows by heart, a tune he can play on any instrument. Now all that was left was to play the music to her so that she could listen.

"Allow me to teach you a bit of your history, _hero_ ," he takes a knee in front of her, not minding the blood that stains his velvet skirts.

"Utter another word…." A deep, desperate breath. "And I will banish you from this realm myself, Emet-Selch."

"What? Suddenly cannot handle the truth of the situation? Do you dread to hear what happened to your family, _what they did_? Your mother was no saint, _Ifritah_ , despite what her name may suggest."

Emet begins the symphony in andante.

"Do you think ceruleum happened to fall upon her lap? That such a valuable mineral would grow from the trees of your homeland? No, my dear. Your mother, much like Varis – _much like any conquerer_ – took what she believed was hers. And my dear, how _bloody_ it was. How ruthless your precious _Parizad_ was."

The pace between them crescendos, Ifritah oblivious that she was not resisting his song, but dancing to it.

"Everything she did was for her family! For the preservation of her people!" Emet mirrors her movements when she stands, their gaze never breaking.

"Such rationale seems so familiar, where have I heard it before? Ah yes," he leans close. "Varis often preached such things to me as well."

She swings forward, but he is faster, catching her hand in mid-air. Her fingers curl into a fist, struggling against his abnormal grip; eyes flare with rage.

"You know nothing of my family!"

"Ah! But I know many things, and I have lived long enough to see the similarities, the _patterns_ ," he steps forward, backing her against the garden wall. "And your mother is no different from any other Garlean."

He grabs her other hand, this one armed with a dagger she produces from her belt. The two were at a standstill – a stalemate. Emet continues to play his sonata, Ifritah, unable to resist the burning that brews within her stomach and heart.

She was the warrior of light and did not need the assistance of her hands to fight. She survived scenarios far more dangerous than an Ascian holding her wrists. But she acts upon her anger, not on thought. Animalistic in her behavior, she would scratch, claw, and hiss – there was no logic, just rage. Just the instinct to dance. When her leg swings forward, Emet steps back into the void, pulling her promptly with him.

Ifritah catches herself before falling face forward.

"What hero kills anything that so much as poses a _threat_ to them? What hero has their hands stained _black_ from the blood their, _oh so precious_ family has killed. For their own gain."

The world is less suffocating; she feels more at ease in this darkness than anywhere else in the First. _What is happening to me?_ The seams of her body no longer feel loose; the weight on her chest disappears.

"I would suggest a change in occupation, my dear _hero_. You would make an excellent ally to the Ascians. It is not too late to heed your calling."

A sorry excuse for a hero - could she use that title anymore? As much as it made her want to tear out her hair, Emet was right. Everything she had done was to become stronger, not to be weak like before. She claws, scratches and hisses, desperate to keep her newfound family safe from the same fate that befell her own. At what cost? The blood she shed, the amount of death she had caused... without batting a single lash, without thinking twice about the repercussions. She was no hero. She was a weapon, wielded by those who knew how to play the strings of her heart.

_Protect us_ , they chant. _Kill them, protect us_.

Her mother, the woman whose name she adopted, who she raised to such high esteem for being a queen people loved. Or was she feared? She can't remember. She can't even remember her face anymore.

"You are correct, Emet-Selch," her words drag themselves out of her throat, leaving scratch marks in their wake.

She wants to scream, to claw at her skin until she bleeds and can cry no more. Return to the husk, follow the orders. _You are no different than me._

"Is this what it feels like to be truly alone?"

Her mind slips into her thoughts' depths, where there existed only darkness and the bittersweet taste of death. If misery did not cloud her vision, she would have seen Emet-Selch smile.

"You have me."


End file.
